Due Date
by LightontheSeaofSorrow
Summary: Mycroft Holmes, age 6, was used to getting whatever he wanted – whenever he wanted – and having people around him who obeyed his every wish and command. So when the object of his latest and most fervent wish decides to say 'no' and have his own way instead, he's in for the disappointment of a lifetime. A childhood insight into why Mycroft hates Christmas. One-shot.


**AN: **For my sweet little Muse who turns one next week, and her (sometimes) patient big sister. And to all of you out there who just hate waiting.

* * *

Mycroft Holmes was used to getting whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted it. He had been put on a pedestal since the day he was born, to be cherished and spoiled by the people around him who went out of their way to do his bidding, no matter what he asked for.

By the age of six, his confidence in his own worth and abilities was infinite, unwavering; nurtured by the constant praise and admiration he was surrounded with. Without a shadow of a doubt, he knew he was the best and the smartest little boy that had ever existed, so he deserved every bit of the good that came his way.

If he wanted a puppy for his birthday, he got it.

If he wanted any toy in the world ever made, he got it.

If he wanted a special treat for dinner, he most certainly got it.

For six years, he had been content to be the King of his Castle, ruling alone. But in time, he had grown tired of playing the same old games every day, of controlling and running rings around the same boring, predictable people in his life.

Now, he had decided that he needed something new, an equal sparring partner, or a playmate of his own. Someone to teach how to play Deductions, or to use in his own power games and experiments. A little brother would fill the role just fine.

So, when he announced his humble servants, also known as Mummy and Daddy Holmes, that he wanted a baby brother for Christmas, it was only logical that they would comply.

Wasn't that the day when baby boys were supposed to be born, anyway?

* * *

In the early morning of the long-awaited Christmas Day (his favourite day of the year), little Mycroft woke up with a big smile on his face. He had been patient, so very very patient, and today was the day when his greatest wish would come true. He would finally, _finally_, meet his brother.

He pushed aside the bed covers, slipped on his warm slippers and rushed out of his bedroom in his pyjamas, still tying the dressing gown around him as he went. He bounded down the stairs, two steps at a time and ran straight into the living room to claim his precious Present, full of great expectations.

In the living room, however, there were no tiny toes sticking out of a stocking on the mantelpiece, nor was there a sweet babe sleeping in a manger by the fireplace. He looked under the beautifully lit Christmas tree and checked each stocking three times, just to be sure. But there were only ordinary, boring presents to be found; all too easily measured and deduced, too quickly to offer any real challenge to him. To his consternation, none of them felt or sounded even remotely like there could be a baby brother wrapped inside. Frantically, yet systematically, in descending order of interest, he tore the parcels open anyway, just to be _absolutely_ sure.

When that was done and no baby had yet been found, confirming his suspicions, another idea occurred to him. _Maybe Mummy has a surprise for me in the nursery..._

Hopeful, he rushed out of the room again, leaving behind a huge heap of toys, clothes and books in disarray on the floor – unwrapped, unwanted, unimportant. He ran back upstairs to the nursery room – but it was dark and silent and the cot that had been prepared for the baby was empty; no sign of the promised brother there either.

Confused, Mycroft stormed down into the kitchen to look for his mother and an explanation. It had better be a good one.

* * *

To his amazement, he found Mummy – still with a Tummy – sitting there, perfectly calm. Sipping chamomile tea and smiling, as if nothing was wrong.

"Merry Christmas, Mikey! You're up early, too. Come and sit with me," she chirped at the little storm cloud that had puffed in through the door.

"Father, Uncle Rudy and Aunt Margaret are still sleeping. We'll have to wait until they wake up to open the…," she paused suddenly and frowned, seeing the paper cut on his son's right thumb, the smudge of red ink on his left palm and the sparkling strip of gold tinsel dangling from his otherwise impeccable hair.

"Mycroft Holmes! You just couldn't wait for us, could you? Same thing every year…," she scolded him and shook her head, pretending to be angry.

"Where is my brother?" Mycroft brushed her off, angry for real.

Mummy patted her huge stomach gently and grinned.

"Still in here, snug as a bug. Though not so snug for myself anymore, I must say. Such a feisty little kicker, this one," she added and sighed, as she shifted in the chair to find a more comfortable position.

"How can he still be in _there_? It's Christmas Day!" Mycroft whined.

"Yes, but perhaps he has other plans," Mummy said softly.

"What other plans? I want him here _now_! It's his birthday!" Mycroft shouted, almost stomping his feet.

"But Mikey darling, the little one doesn't know he's supposed to be born today," Mummy tried to reason with him, knowing where the discussion was going.

His mother's answer left Mycroft speechless.

How could he _not_ know he was supposed to be born on his own birthday? Clearly, that indicated the baby was an idiot and that, quite simply, would not do. Didn't he know that the Holmes boys were the smartest, the most brilliant ones in the world? He wouldn't be seen hanging around with an imbecile, that was for sure.

Mummy saw the disappointed frown on his face and tried to cheer him up.

"You have to be patient, Mikey. Show him you're ready to be his big brother. Maybe he just wants to be convinced you are as good and clever as he needs you to be. Do you want to talk to him and tell him? The baby can hear you if you come close enough," she suggested, caressing her stomach.

When that only earned a hostile glare from her son, the second sure sign of a major temper tantrum heading their way, she bit her lip and continued hastily.

"I'm sorry, love, but he'll be here only when _he's_ ready. We'll just have to do it _his _way this time. Nothing I can do," she added and smiled apologetically to placate him.

Mycroft mulled it over for a while, amazed by what he had just heard. _His way? _Apparently, his brother was not only an idiot, but an arrogant idiot. And that was something he certainly hadn't asked for. _How dare he?_ And why did Mummy let it happen? Wasn't she supposed to be on Mycroft's side?

But then, he collected his thoughts and tried to find the silver lining in the matter, as he had been taught. Wasn't it unreasonable of him to expect that someone else could be as brilliant as he was? Surely there were advantages in being the smart one in the family. On second thoughts, he almost felt sorry for the idiot child. Poor thing: so small, so utterly clueless. Maybe Mummy was right, after all: he needed a smart and resourceful big brother to watch over him. Not everyone could be a genius in this world.

Feeling a bit more patient and more than a little bit smug, Mycroft asked Mummy "When will I see my brother, then?"

"It could be a _sister_ too, you know," Mummy tried to change the subject, teasing him.

"My _brother_," he declared, not stating a wish but a fact. "When will I see him? Tomorrow?"

"Peradventure," was all Mummy said. This was delivered with a mischievous wink and an enigmatic smile.

Not a 'yes', not a 'no'. _Peradventure_. Mycroft wasn't even sure what the word meant and it irritated him.

For the first time, he started to suspect that there might be unpredictable elements and grey areas in life, too; filled with creatures too wild and wilful to conform to his wishes and where things were out of his control. He didn't like the thought one bit.

* * *

Mycroft spent Christmas Day waiting and hoping, hoping and waiting; with bated breath and fingers crossed, trying to will his brother to emerge. But the baby adamantly stayed in the Tummy, biding his time. Due date or not, he refused to be born that day, and he was unwilling to show himself the next day, either. Or the next. Or the next.

Mycroft's resentment towards the disobedient baby grew by the hour; his already tried patience wearing thin and more dark clouds gathering in his head and heart. Day after day of getting his hopes up and then ending in disappointment was too much even for his nerves of steel.

To distract himself from the boredom of waiting, he had kept eating as many mince pies as he possibly could ever since Boxing Day. If one pie per day brought good luck for the coming year, then surely the more he ate, the luckier he would get. But when the only thing he had gained by New Year's Day was more weight, and no brother had still emerged despite his efforts, he gave it up as a lost cause. Apparently, the baby chose to ignore traditions, too.

By then, his Christmas spirit was gone for good.

He spent the rest of the holidays sulking in his bedroom and cursing the day he had made his wish. _Be careful what you wish for_, Granny always used to say. Too late for that now.

Some days, he still wondered, a bit worried, whether his stubborn brother would be bothered to be born at all...

And if he did, well – when the stupid creature would be old enough to understand, he would tell him what a failure and disappointment he was and how he had managed to ruin his Christmas, even before he was born.

* * *

Less than a week later – an eternity, really – came Epiphany; marking the end of the bitter and lonely Christmas time and bringing with it an epiphany of a different kind. But that, as they say, is another story.


End file.
